Wormwood The Vile
Wormwood 'the Vile' is a Forsaken who is adept in alchemy and use of poisons. Pre-death (Due for re-write) Death Rasmus screamed in agony. He could feel his blood boiling, his skin peeling off. He clutched his chest in pain, gasping for breath as he squirmed. A rush of cold fell over his body, and he desperately held onto what was left of his memories. He could not even remember his brother's face. It was nothing but a blur, and it was fading to black rapidly. He coughed and spluttered, dragging himself along the wooden boards of his room. With bony, rotting fingers, he pulled himself up to the window sill. Outside, the flames began to rise. He stared in horror, not at the town burning, but at his disgusting, monstrous face. He tried to scream, but it was nothing but a faint squealing. Something clicked in his cheek, and he moved his hand to touch it. In a fit of pain, he spat, and he saw his teeth sliding down the window, a trail of red following it. He felt his jaw cracking, and it fell down within moments. He stared down with sunken, failing eyes at his almost smiling, jeering lower jaw. Now, he was alone, surrounded by darkness. He stood in a vast expanse of nothingness, watching the fading light that was reality sliding away from him. He couldn't think. It was a blur. A wall, blocking him from the rest of his mind. A secluded sector, where Rasmus was hiding, whilst the horrific pain engulfed his body. Undeath Rasmus stared into the flask. He saw someone in the reflection, but wasn't quite sure who it was. Who is that? He looked down at his rotten hands. One held a bunched up ball of paper, the other the tattered black cloth which he used to cover his face. The reflection was gone, and he looked over his shoulder, just to be sure. He thought he was sad, but he knew that was just an illusion. A trick, played on him by the depths of his mind. He knew exactly what he was doing. "I'm not alive anymore." he said to himself. It had been several days since the high elf took him and the other walking dead back to Tirisfal, where many of them had begun creating their own towns. Many of his new friends in undeath had forgotten their past, naming themselves again. Rasmus was the only thing he knew about himself, so that was what he called himself. It was written on the inside of the black cloth, so he would remember, in case he ever gave his brain to someone less fortunate. At least the crude metal contraption on his jaw was working well enough to act as a new mouth. He could speak, even if it was only in monotone. No emphasis. No quotes. Worst of all, there was no sarcasm for him. And his tongue was beginning to rot too much. In fact, he couldn't actually move it that much, and spoke in whispers so that he had no need to replace it. He could easily sew it back on. The 'deathguard', as they had been named, were beginning to call him Wormwood. He had no clue why, but it sounded appealing, so he accepted it as a nickname. It was easier to remember than Rasmus, which he couldn't actually say properly without an organic jaw. Wormwood's jaw was pickled in a jar filled with green water, which he kept on a shelf above his bed. It wasn't the same bed that he woke up with, after dying, but it was still a bed nonetheless. The corpse opened the door to his little shack, and wandered across the woodlands, over to the newly named town Deathknell, which was a host to graves where more of the dead were being raised. He could see the capital city's spires if he climbed one of the taller trees. He often wondered if his brother was there, but simply decided that he probably left. Wormwood looked over at the nearby crowd, who were watching a group of living people. "They're not dead." he heard one say. There was at least a dozen deathguard standing with the crowd of corpses, who whispered to each other suspiciously. The humans in red began to approach, holding swords and torches in their hands. One of them wore rather impressive attire, and a greatsword that glowed with a yellow light. It actually hurt Wormwood just to look at it. As he came closer to the crowd of corpses, who were brandishing axes, swords and other crude weapons, the light was glowing brighter. And when he swung it, those at the front were scorched. They burst into flames, yelling as they rolled on the grass. Those who were not on fire, attacked him. Whilst the light held most of them off, he was quickly overwhelmed. More deathguard were running to the scene, which was escalating. Wormwood backed away. He knew that there was definitely going to be more trouble with the humans in red. World of WarcraftCategory:ForsakenCategory:AlchemistCategory:UndeadCategory:Horde The man collapsed to the ground, frothing at the mouth. A stream of red fell from his nose as he stared up at the corpse. He was clutching his arm, where a flesh wound seeped with pus. The blade was dripping with black liquid, and Wormwood dropped it on the ground. He wandered forwards to the man in red, and swiftly snapped his neck with a movement. He wanted to smile, but couldn't. The black cloth flittered in the wind as he wandered up the darkened roads of Silverpine. He could see the blue banners of the Forsaken up ahead, acknowledging that he was finally home. To his right were the maroon coloured tents of the Apothecary, and the various apprentices. He returned to his rather ornate chair, behind the desk littered with documents that had yet to be stamped. On the right side of the desk was the pickled jaw, still grinning at him. He wondered if he could donate it to someone else, since he had a metal jaw. Although, it was now the last remaining memory of his original body, as most of his body was now replaced with that of others. The stitching on his left forearm was coming apart, but he hadn't time to go to the Undercity again. And why would someone waste time sewing a single corpse's arm? Well, I '''am' an apothecary. And I'm not a simple amateur, either.'' He thought it was in his head, but the nearby apprentice looked at him in confusion. Rather, what he assumed was confusion. "There's someone here for you," the boy mumbled. He had died when he was only twenty years old, and still had his long brown hair. The eyes he had were gone, though. Rather pretty green eyes. The jar containing them was stolen. "A deathguard." Wormwood stared up at the apprentice in disgust, having a great distaste for the deathguard. They were arrogant, and rude. "Alright, then." He stood up, pushing the chair back. The flask fell off his desk as he hit it with his leg, shattering as it hit the ground. The orange gas began to rise. "Curses! Clean that up. I will return." he snapped, shambling out the room. As he left, the apprentices began putting on gasmasks and protective equipment as they prepared to clean up the mess. Across the courtyard, was a tall, crooked creature, whose right arm was carried by his left. He held a greatsword in that severed limb. The deathguard eyed Wormwood carefully as he approached from the building that emanated a strange gas. He was supported by two rather shorter deathguard, on each side. "Mmrgh. Wormwood." The words slithered off his tongue, with a certain roll to it. Generally, deathguard disliked apothecary, so it seemed. Either that, he thought, or they despise me specifically. Regardless, Wormwood saluted to the high ranking soldier. "What do you want?" He glared venomously at the gargantuan, who towered above him with a skeptical curl of his lip. "You are required. This new... Horde, that we have become part of. They want to take us with them on their newest war campaign." He nearly fell over as he spat out the sentence. The alchemist stared at him with upmost hatred, another dog trying to send him to war. "I'm no soldier, you da-" "You're going to supply potions and poisons alike to the greenskins." He was now giving him orders. Nothing he could do, at this point. Wormwood snorted, waving a dismissive hand to the recruiter. "Fine." he said as he wandered back inside the now clear laboratory. His apprentices had trailed off upstairs with the spillage, one of them already spasming as the bone and flesh alike rotted away on his leg. Interesting. The Burning Crusade (1) Wormwood stared out into the deep green abyss that laid before him in. He squinted, before turning back to look at the other infantry entering in swarms. His mind was focused on whether he'd actually make it through the portal. Can the undead even go through the portal? The first thought. Surely they can. If they couldn't, then... Wait, no. That isn't right. The apothecary waddled awkwardly down the steps. Presently, the forces of the Horde and Alliance stood guard before him. The commander waved a hand dismissively at him, and he turned on his heels, sighing. Then I'll go through. Wormwood pulled up the red hood, climbing the stairs with some difficulty. He shook his head and extended a bony limb towards the portal. Within a split second, he found himself staring down at a barren world. Gargantuan terrors charged the steps, and valiantly the forces of Azeroth took them on. A pointless battle. Now, where am I meant to be? The apothecary squinted, peering over at a flag that resembled that of the Forsaken. He approached, using the walls and beams as support as he shuffled along in his tattered veil. Like a humped beast of burden he slowly made his way, hunched over. His hands contorted and adjusted themselves within the cloth. As he approached, a flash of green nearly sent him tumbling, though it narrowly missed. He climbed over the blaze, his cloak scorched by the emerald flames. They bit at his feet as he cleared his throat to speak to the nearby grunts. "Ah, hello." He tried to sound as formal as possible. If I show that I am superior, they may help me. "I am looking for the recruiter." The two orcs spoke to each other in another language, before turning to look at him. They continued to speak, though he couldn't understand them, nor even hear them. Their tone was all he heard besides the audible grunts and growls. One of them gestured over to a wyvern roost, where several orcs tended to them. Oh, bother. What is it with orcs and those disgusting wyverns? The Burning Crusade (2) Wormwood looked about. Fungal towers stood tall around the camp, and the stench of the swamp reminded him of the Wetlands. Though he had only been there thrice. Blueskinned creatures which were clearly some form of moss-less trolls wandered about. Many of them were thin and wiry, unlike the great warriors and savages that he remembered. One of them started speaking in Common. I didn't know the primitives spoke my tongue. "Ay, alchemist. Jus 'ere ta' make us poisons n' potions, eh?" "Your accent makes me physically ache. And yes." The troll looked at him in surprise. He shrugged. "Used ta' dat response. Corpses ain' so fond of us. But-- ya mon. Ju go ova' sit wit' the otha's in da' hut. We bring ya herbs when we go huntin' or scoutin', and ju make somethin' from 'em." It took the apothecary a few moments to decrypt the strange language, before he nodded and wandered over to where other Forsaken, and orcs to an extent, sat around a table on which sat piles of maps, blueprints and vials of chemicals. Plenty of supply boxes and apparatus stood on other tables in the hut. In the distance, the local humanoids (named Lost Ones, according to an orc he spoke to in the barren red area of Outland), were jabbing the legs of a tall creature which destroyed its attackers with great beams of magic. Wormwood immediately sat down, his bones creaking as he did so. A legionnaire barked orders at grunts a few meters away, and peons placed more crates on the towering piles around them, which dangerously teetered. "My first order--" "I am in charge." Across from Wormwood sat a short Forsaken who had fresh stitches and a slightly brighter skin tone, as if he had only just been raised. He wore a sable-coloured garment of silk, and a white chef's hat. He absentmindedly stared into the distance as his left hand stood idle over a sheet of parchment, quill in hand. "Actually-" "No. I am the apothecary in charge of this society's expedition. Any exploits here are under my orders strictly, which come directly from the Dark Lady herself." He shifted his gaze from the swamps to Wormwood. Usurped! I hold more power than either of these disgusting upstarts! Grumbling as he sat down, Wormwood went over the piles of paperwork before the chair labelled his. Wrath of the Lich King Cataclysm Category:Back story